


Sleepless Nights

by inamamagic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Non canon compliant, Non-Canon Relationship, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamamagic/pseuds/inamamagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco tries to get Hermione to come back to bed</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter
> 
> Based on this prompt: 
> 
> Prompt 588. “The clock on the mantle showed half past two in the morning, but still she did not sleep.” 
> 
> (http://hpfanfictionprompts.tumblr.com/post/59223441958/prompt-588-the-clock-on-the-mantle-showed-half)

He finds himself drifting between sleeping and waking; every shift of hers is a gentle jolt into consciousness before the darkness kisses him back into oblivion again.

The next time he opens his eyes, he is consumed with a lack of her, an abundance of space that makes him think of the shell of the Manor after the war.

Dragging himself out of the warmth of his covers, he grits his teeth as the cold nips at his bare skin. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he grabs a dressing gown, wandering downstairs almost in a trance.

She is standing outside, spectral in the moonlight, her pyjamas a stark juxtaposition against the otherwise classic scene. It makes sense though, he thinks, as he draws nearer her. Their lives are now a contradiction - her only solace comes from the place of her nightmares, her one comfort in the arms of an old tormentor.

He wraps his arms around her and she sighs, relaxing in his embrace.

"What do you think about a gazebo, right around here?" she asks.

Stifling a yawn, he struggles to open his eyes. Permanent exhaustion seems to have settled into his bones, something no amount of Invigoration Draught have been able to cure.

"Would be nice I think," he says, as she tilts her head.

"Glass," she decides. "Like in the Sound of Music."

"The what?"

"It's a Muggle film."

"Oh.

The absence of peacocks in the garden is still disconcerting, even after two years without them - or his parents. Despite all his efforts, the Manor is still very much a shell of what it used to be - a skeleton of what was once home.

She moves out of his embrace, walking around and inspecting everything. Remodelling, redesigning, refurbishing - it was all they'd done for a year now.

In his younger days, he would've balked at the idea of doing anything beyond fixing general repairs. Malfoy Manor was, after all, a permanent fixture, the only constant when his world was falling apart, until of course, _they'd_ made it their own, poisoning every inch, every nook and cranny and crevice until burning the estate seemed to be the only way out.

After his parents' deaths, he'd found himself wishing for a way to erase the magic away. It was magic that had taken away his home, had ripped away the foundations of his family, had destroyed everything he'd held dear. Being without magic, the one thing he'd been brought up to hate, to _despise_ , seemed to be the only way to escape the madness in his head.

The Muggle touches that had arrived with her were strangely welcome. And of course, once she'd started experimenting, trying to find a way to bridge both her worlds together, he'd opened his arms wide to the tidal wave of TVs, laptops, electric appliances, and the one very wonderful coffee machine that he'd ended up using more than she did as soon as she'd succeeded in making it operate by magic.

"What's it about?" he asks.

"Love," she says. "And war. They leave behind everything they love... but they endure."

She's made him love magic again, by showing him how to adapt, and endure.

"A glass gazebo," he repeats. "Would be nice. You could sit inside and read."

"Exactly."

Her mind never stops, not for a second. In the beginning, he'd wanted to shake her in frustration. She is like clockwork, always ticking, until the inevitable breakdown, of course. But he knows that it is her way of working, of forgetting, of coping with the fact that she'd lost people too.

The scars on her arm stand out against her smooth skin, and the scars on his chest twinge, as though in response to the sight. One curse to another. Old friends from the war.

"The board of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers will be coming in tomorrow," she says, frowning slightly at the patch of grass in front of her.

"Oh?"

"They want to discuss patents for the new cleaning potions I've been developing with Orla," she says. "The ones for the Squibs. I mentioned it on Friday afternoon."

"Ah," he says. "What do you need?"

"The parlour, for an hour, and a prompt rescue if the meeting runs over that time."

She catches his eye and the ghost of a smile flits across her face. He nods, the gesture of humour warming him. It's the closest she has come to a smile in an entire year. But it's enough because it keeps them going.

His mind flicks to Harry Potter, as it does every now and again, and his scars seem to sting a little more at the memory. He wonders how the recovery is going - the last time they were at St. Mungo's he had failed to recognise anyone, except of course, a spectre of Ronald Weasely that no one else could see.

Deaths were difficult, but having to watch a loved one trapped in a permanent state of insanity...

"Hermione," he whispers. "Come back to bed."

She turns to him, and her eyes are bright with tears.

"In the Sound of Music," she says, "they have a happy ending. They lose everything, but they have a happy ending. The war doesn't destroy them, because they escaped the war first."

He walks towards her and puts an arm on her shoulder. Visiting St. Mungo's always puts a dent in her resolve. Especially when Harry is having a bad day.

"We will endure," he says, as a tear rolls down her cheek. "We will keep moving."

She wipes the tear away and takes a shuddering breath. She cries very little nowadays, and when she does, it's always quiet and controlled.

He remembers the day she broke down for the first time, screaming at him about saving her from his aunt, screaming that he should have let her die, rather than let them escape. She no longer talks about it, but he wonders how often it comes back to her mind.

"Let's plan dinner" he says. "Friday night."

She composes herself and nods. "Sunday night. I have a meeting with Barnabus Cuffe on Friday, and that's going to take more out of me that I'd like. We can assign dishes to different people and clear out the living room. Perhaps get the gazebo in place before we host."

"Sounds like a plan," he says, nudging her back in the direction of the house. He can almost hear the cogs whirring in her mind as she latches onto this new event - logistics never fail to occupy her for a good while.

She is not going to sleep tonight - he doesn't expect it - but at least she will not dwell on the emptiness that seems to have taken a permanent hold over all of them.

And that is enough for him.


End file.
